


Of Fords, Firewhiskey, and First Kisses

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-07
Updated: 2010-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry raised a heavy, dark eyebrow in uncertainty, but complied with Ron's request as the two young men ventured out of the low, amber-lit glow of The Burrow and into the yard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Fords, Firewhiskey, and First Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for brumeux77.

"Sssh," Ron mouthed, raising a single freckled finger to dry, cracked lips in the darkness of The Burrow on Christmas Eve.

"But where are we –"

"Sssh!" Ron hissed, insistently, as he looked hastily over his shoulder to see Harry, slightly crouched and very confused, standing behind him as they each pressed their bodies to the wall in an attempt to make sure they weren't seen.

For what reason, Harry was still not entirely sure. "But why can't we just – I mean, I've got the cloak, we could –"

Ron glared at Harry. "No cloak. Just –" Ron paused, collecting himself, "Just be quiet, yeah?"

Harry raised a heavy, dark eyebrow in uncertainty, but complied with Ron's request as the two young men ventured out of the low, amber-lit glow of The Burrow and into the yard.

_Whatever was Ron up to?_ Harry wondered as the snow-scattered earth crunched underfoot, and their spindly forms cast long shadows across the yard as the moon bathed them in its shimmering, milky white.

***

Ron looked nervously about him as he and Harry approached the old shed. It had been an age since he had poked about in there, and he hoped everything would be just as he had left it. Motioning for Harry to stop behind him as they reached the rickety old door, Ron took a deep breath. He pushed, hard, against the door, but the effort of his movement was entirely unnecessary: the door was light – very light – and the force of Ron's contact with the splintering timber sent it swinging on its hinges before it connected, loudly and heavily, with the wall.

"Bollocks!" Ron hissed as the noise rang out through the yard. He was sure the clatter would be carried on the wind; that it would wend its way around the hodge-podge structure of The Burrow and into his parents' bedroom, that it would (certainly) wake them, and that he and Harry would soon (and inevitably) be joined by the whole house before he could even show Harry what it was that he wanted – no, needed – to show him.

"Ron, what are we –" Harry hissed through chattering teeth as a gust of bitterly cold wind swept unexpectedly and violently across the Weasleys' yard.

"Come on," Ron said, motioning for Harry to step inside the confines of the shed. Harry followed Ron inside and the two were soon confronted with the smell of dust and metal and timber, the scent of each entwined with the other in a not wholly unpleasant odour. Ron closed the door behind Harry or, rather, pushed it to, allowing a slender band of moonlight to infiltrate the dark; lighting a silvery path over the myriad gizmos and gadgets, discarded objects and failed projects that littered the grimy floor.

As Ron trod his carefully chosen path through the clatter, Harry took a moment to adjust to the light. His eyes searched the dim and, soon, the shadows formed shapes. Curiously familiar shapes...

"Ron, is that –"

Pausing, Ron turned to face Harry. "Yeah," he said, grinning.

"But I thought – it can't be –"

"It can," Ron replied, "It is."

"No way," Harry said breathlessly and, raising himself up on the tips of his toes, he bounded lightly over the same small path that Ron had walked. There they stood, side-by-side and, squinting into the darkness, allowed their eyes to rove over the great, angular lump that was –

"The Anglia," Ron announced proudly.

"But I thought," Harry began, "I mean, how is it – it was completely –"

"Yeah," Ron said, "It was. But Dad couldn't part with it. Come on." Ron leaned forward to open the door. "Go on," he said gesturing to Harry, "Get in."

Harry looked at Ron, and back to the car before stepping into the front seat.

"Budge up," Ron said as he joined Harry and, as the two shifted, the squeak of their movements against the leather echoed tremulously around the vehicle.

"This is brilliant," Harry said, reaching out and placing the palms of his hands flat on the dashboard. The grain of it was cool and soothing against his skin.

"Like I said," Ron continued as he leaned back in the driver's seat, "Dad couldn't bear to part with it. Told Mum he had, of course. We've fixed it up a bit, since its run-in with the Willow though."

"I can see that." Harry's eyes were wide as he spoke, as though they were trying to capture all that was around him at this moment in time; to hold the memory between grasping fingers that simply did not exist.

"But why'd you want to show me?" Harry asked.

"Well," Ron started to answer, but his voice broke off suddenly. "Hang on." Harry watched with a quizzical expression on his face, as Ron reached down to the floor of the car.

"A-ha!" he said, extracting a bottle of Firewhiskey from under his seat. "Here we are." Ron cracked open the bottle and offered it to Harry: he, in turn, took a substantial swig before handing it back to Ron.

"Well?" Harry prodded, his voice thick and his tongue heavy and warm with the burn of the liquor as it streamed down his throat and into his belly.

Ron breathed deeply before taking a long drink. Harry watched as Ron's Adam's apple undulated with each mouthful that wound its way past his lips and over his tongue.

"Well," Ron resumed, finally tearing the bottle from his lips, "It's your Christmas present."

_"What?"_

"It's your Christmas present," Ron repeated. He sipped again from the Firewhiskey and, as he offered the bottle to Harry once more, a strand of saliva dangled from Ron's mouth to the lip of the bottle. Taking the proffered drink, Harry lifted it to his own mouth and drank deeply.

"I can't, Ron," he said as he swallowed, "It's too much. Far too much. And you've been working on it. You should have it. It's yours, really, and I can't –"

"Harry," Ron said sternly, his blue eyes fixed firmly on Harry, "It's yours. It's _all_ yours."

Harry exhaled, slowly, as his mind processed the magnitude of Ron's gesture. "Thank you," he said quietly, simply: there was, he knew, little else he could say.

"Thanks mate," he repeated, returning Ron's persistent gaze.

"Alright," Ron said cheerfully, smiling an endearingly wonky smile, "Merry Christmas."

Harry nodded. "Merry Christmas," he reciprocated as he leaned across the expanse of leather-clad seat between them and pulled Ron into a hug. Holding Ron close, Harry rested his head in the hollow of Ron's lean neck and broad shoulder; in the kindness and warmth of him, and the parts that no-one else would ever see.

As they pulled apart, extricating long, gangly limbs, flat stomachs and skinny torsos from one another, Harry committed to a decision: he leaned towards Ron and, in the space of a moment, a heartbeat, a breath – he brushed his own soft, dry lips to Ron's; to the taste of Firewhiskey and the smell of his hair and the rhythmic heaving of his chest.

He surrendered - to the musty smell of the old shed, the creak of the Ford Anglia's leather; to the comfort and familiarity of Ron's lop-sided smile.


End file.
